The Best Medicine
by stripeyjumpers
Summary: "Remind me again how telling you a joke is going to help your illness." John needs to get his mind off of his miserable flu symptoms, and challenges Sherlock to make him laugh, but it won't be a joke that gets him to finally calm down. *Reviews are welcome as always*


A/N: I know this one is a bit shorter, but reviews are always helpful :3 Thank you for reading ^-^

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"Please?" John whimpered through a dry throat as he lay across the sofa tucked snug under a few layers of sheets and blankets. His face was sickly pale and his forehead was beginning to glisten with sweat as he looked up at the consulting detective with the best puppy dog eyes he could muster.

"No, I will not subject myself to being your form of entertainment." Sherlock swung his blue dressing gown authoritatively around his waist as he took a seat in his arm chair and began to fumble around on his mobile.

"Sherlock…I feel dreadful…" he sniffled, holding back a cough.

"Yes, and you look it too, now do try to get some rest, it's about all you can do at the moment."

John sighed as his heavy lids made his eyelashes droop into his vision. The dark grey skies that painted the windowpanes were speckled with drops of silvery rain.

"There's no way I'm getting any sleep with how I feel…closing my eyes only makes my headache pound harder and I'd wake up every five minutes in a coughing fit anyway…"

"Yes, we all know the flu isn't a barrel of monkeys, but sniffling all over the place and whining about it is most certainly not the cure to your ailments."

"Sherlock, I am not whining, please, just please do this for me."

"Saying 'please' repeatedly does not help either."

John was about to answer when his words were cut short by an oncoming wave of congested coughs. Sherlock couldn't help but glance up at his flatmate who currently looked like he was choking on air. When the hacking finally calmed down John just closed his eyes and panted heavily, trying to even out his breathing.

Sherlock put his phone in his lap and turned his attention back to John.

"Remind me again how telling you a joke is going to help your illness." He said irritably.

"Laughter," John coughed into his sleeve, "laughter is supposed to be the best medicine."

"That's preposterous. You're a doctor John; even you should know the best treatment for the flu is rest, medication, fluids—"

"I know I know, that's not what I meant, genius. I need something to distract me from all this god damn aching and nausea. You've got to have some good jokes stored somewhere in that mind palace of yours."

"Humour isn't exactly my strong area John."

"Obviously," John challenged, "but there's got to be _something_."

Sherlock huffed in his chair and stared into the distance, rummaging through the dusty, cluttered attic of his mind palace.

"Alright, I believe I've got something."

"Try me."

"Knock knock,"

"Oh god…who's there?"

"To."

"To who?"

"To _whom_, John."

Instead of laughing John choked a bit on his saliva and almost went into another coughing tantrum.

"Jesus Sherlock, even in your jokes you have to correct me."

"Oh, I apologize. Perhaps I should try something different."

"Please."

"What do you do with a dead chemist?"

"I dunno, what?"

"Barium."

At this John let out a small breathy laugh and sighed, grasping his arm over his aching stomach.

"Do you know any jokes that _aren't _related to academics?"

"I don't believe so. Am I done now?"

"I've barely laughed, and I still feel miserable." John's voice was getting considerably more nasally with congestion.

"Well as I stated earlier humour is not my strong point. I'm going to have a shower." Sherlock's blue cape ruffled behind him as he headed towards the bathroom, but John stopped him before he could even leave the sitting room.

"Sherlock, wait, you took one this morning."

"Yes, and since then I've been in the presence of your sniveling, germ-infested—"

"Alright, alright, have at it then…" John just waved his hand in surrender and leaned his head back into the layer of pillows he'd stacked behind him to keep himself propped up.

When Sherlock finally re-entered the living room he wore a fresh cream coloured t-shirt and some clean lounge-pants with his crimson dressing gown hanging off his shoulders. He was in the middle of scrubbing his damp hair with a small towel when he noticed John had fallen asleep on the couch.

He stood for a moment and just observed his flatmate, his arms lay limp on top of the coalition of sheets pulled up just to his chest, his head was turned slightly to the back of the sofa with his mouth draping open, and his breathing was slow and riddled with congestion.

Sherlock then looked to the side of the sofa where he noticed the small bin that normally sat in some odd corner in the sitting room. He presumed John had dragged it over and most likely had been sick in it. A subtle frown sprawled across the detective's face as he sank back down into his armchair as quietly as he could.

Unfortunately even the light noise of Sherlock's shuffling was enough to rouse the sleeping doctor, who woke with a sniffle and a few short coughs.

"Sh'lock?" he slurred as he looked around for his flatmate.

"I assume you would have been sick in the bathroom had I not been in it." Sherlock motioned toward the bin.

"Oh…erm…actually I dunno if I would've been able to make it to the bathroom…was starting to feel dizzy anyway."

"Hm, well, I suppose I should fetch you some water."

"Mm, yeah that'd be good."

Sherlock pushed himself out of the chair and slid his bare feet across the cold tile floors of the kitchen. He ran some tap water into a glass before coming back and placing it sloppily on the coffee table.

"Thanks," John mumbled.

"Right," Sherlock practically grunted as he yanked a dusty hardcover from the bookshelf. He plopped back down in his familiar spot and pried open the book to a random page.

"Do you even read those?" John looked inquisitively at his flatmate.

Sherlock just looked straight ahead in annoyance and shut the book hard.

"If you must know, this is not a chapter book, it is a medical encyclopedia and every once in a while when I am mind shatteringly bored I open it up to a miscellaneous page and familiarize myself with whatever subject I come across."

"Ah…pardon me, Dr. Holmes…"

"I'll have you know I've got at least ninety-eight percent of this book memorized, and now I'm just _rereading _the material for entertainment, _Mr. Watson_." Sherlock opened his book again.

"Sherlock you're really not helping my head right now…"

"Wasn't trying to."

"Can you?"

"Pardon?"

"Please, can you try to make me laugh again? Apparently sleeping wasn't a good enough distraction."

"John, we've been over this, I am not your court jester!"

"Someone sounds bitter 'cause they can't tell a joke." John managed to choke up without sneezing violently.

Sherlock sighed heavily and pounded his book shut again, slamming it down onto the end table.

"Fine. But I still highly doubt this is an effective way of treating an illness."

"Oh just out with it, my stomach's starting to churn again."

"Alright, give me a moment." Sherlock sat up a bit, steepled his fingers under his chin and stared very deeply into space, digging through the back of his head in search of some odd joke he discarded ages ago.

"Okay," he started, "who was the roundest knight at King Arthur's round table?"

"Err, I dunno who?"

"Sir Cumference."

This time John managed to let a considerable chuckle escape his lips, then with a hand to his forehead he laughed a bit harder when he remembered something.

"Wait, I think I've heard that one before, he ate all the pi right?"

Sherlock grinned, "Indeed he did, John."

For a moment the two just sat and smiled shyly in the grey silence.

"Do you feel any better?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Uhm, a bit, I suppose, got me off of thinking about my stomach for the moment." John grimaced as he placed his hand back over his abdomen.

"I presume you're thinking about it now then."

"Mmf…yeah," he blinked hard, "damn it, when did it get so cold in here? I'm bloody freezing…"

Sherlock just watched as his friend began to lightly shiver and tremble under the covers. Suddenly the great detective began to panic, tapping his fingers fervently on his knees and biting his lip.

"Er, John, have you heard the one about immortality? I hear it never gets old,"

John didn't even acknowledge that Sherlock said anything and just continued to shut his eyes tight and shake under the sheets. Sherlock shot up from his seat and headed to John's usual armchair, grabbing the dull green and red-striped blanket from off the back of it. He continued to ramble as he laid the blanket gently over his friend.

"I thought that was a rather clever one John, but you didn't even let out a giggle, or a small chortle. Did you know the word 'chortle' wasn't even a word until Lewis Carroll made it up for one of his stories? Did you know that, John?"

The doctor only let out a wheezing cough in response at first, before catching his breath.

"That's…that's great, Sherlock…"

After unnecessarily readjusting the blanket a bit more Sherlock placed the back of his wrist to John's forehead and frowned.

"You're warmer than before…perhaps—oh, are you going to be sick again?" he asked hastily as his friend covered his mouth and clawed at the fabric of his jumper near his stomach. "Alright, I think we should get you to the bathroom this time, come on, up you get."

Sherlock leaned down and lifted one of John's arms around his shoulders before heaving him off of the sofa. John's steps were slow and uneven as he clutched his side.

"Do you feel light-headed at all?"

"Uhh…" but John didn't even have to finish speaking before he answered the question, because right as the two reached the entryway to the kitchen his knees buckled under him and he dropped to the floor with a thud, one arm still draped around the detective.

Sherlock had tried to hold him up as best he could but ended up being dragged down to the floor next to John, keeping an arm tight around his shoulders.

"John,"

"I don' think I'm gonna make it to the bathroom…" he winced as he tried to focus on the pattern on the floor instead of the sick twisting going on in his stomach.

Sherlock released his grip for a moment to rush into the sitting room and grab the bin, placing it gingerly in front of the crouched doctor. Without even thinking Sherlock placed his arm back around John's shivering form.

Not even a minute later John was retching rather violently into the trash, shaking and sniveling and trying to control himself. Sherlock just absentmindedly rubbed John's back and tried to look away. When John finally seemed to be finished Sherlock got up and wet a small cloth with some warm water, handing it to John to let him wipe his face and mouth.

"I'm sorry," John muttered through short breaths.

"Why are you sorry? Clearly you didn't make a mess everywhere, not that I would have cleaned it up anyway, but there shouldn't be reason to apologize." Sherlock furrowed his brow as he kneeled next to his friend.

John rested his head up against the wall and just took deep breaths for a moment.

"No I mean, I'm sorry you have to deal with this, with me. You could've been on a case today, but instead…"

"No John, you're sick and needed someone to take care of you, and Mrs. Hudson is out of town. Though even if she wasn't, I'm sure I would…uhm,"

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"Of course," Sherlock looked at John who was now holding on to his midsection with both arms, making a pain-stricken face and trembling lightly.

"Shall I tell another joke?"

John almost laughed, "No, I think that might just help me to vomit."

"Right," Sherlock reached over to the bin and began tying a knot in the small plastic bag, "let's get you back to the sofa, then I'll go take the trash out."

"You, taking the trash out, that may be the best joke you've told yet."

Sherlock just smiled quickly as he got up and reached out a hand for John, who took it hesitantly before being pulled up and practically crashing into Sherlock's chest. They both fumbled a bit awkwardly before finally Sherlock laid John down effectively and covered the blankets back over him.

He slid his way back over to the kitchen and proceeded to take the trash outside. When he returned he found John looking more upset than ill, though his face was still a ghostly white. Returning his focus to something else, Sherlock replaced the bag in the bin and brought it back over to John's side.

"Well, there you are," Sherlock checked his watch, "you should probably eat something. I believe the last time you ate was around seven-thirty this morning, and it is nearly four o'clock, and unlike me I don't think you can get by on water and tea for days on end."

"Erm, actually Sherlock I think if I ate anything it'd come right back up with a vengeance. Do you think you could just make me some mint tea or…something?" John squirmed uncomfortably on the sofa.

"Mint tea, right, of course, I think we have that."

Sherlock swiveled around and began making his way to the kettle, but his stride was a little too quick and he'd failed to notice that one of the ends of the belt on his dressing gown was far too long on one side, and he tripped right over it in the most unsophisticated and ungraceful way possible, landing face down on the floor.

John burst out laughing.

The doctor couldn't even control his immature giggling at the detective that was now fumbling to get up in a heap of silk and messy brown curls.

"Damn it John, that wasn't funny!" He snapped as he kneeled on the floor, trying to brush himself off.

"Then why am I laughing?" John mused between short gasps of giggles.

"Because you find amusement at other people's expense!" Sherlock shot as he got up and fixed the tie around his waist appropriately.

"Sorry Sherlock, but you didn't even see it coming! Your arms just flailed up like—"

"Alright John, I get the point, now go retch in your bin or something!"

"Oh come off it Sherlock, I've been needing a good laugh all day."

The detective sighed in surrender. "I suppose I should just fall on my face every time you need a chuckle."

John grinned quietly and motioned towards Sherlock's chair. "Come on, no need for the dramatics, just sit down and relax, forget about the tea, I'm alright for now."

Sherlock looked as if he were contemplating this before stalking over to his chair and sinking into it comfortably.

"I'm glad I was at least able to make you laugh once today." Sherlock said rather grimly.

"You know, just because you don't make me laugh doesn't mean you don't make me happy."

"Come now John, no need to turn this into the ending of one of your ridiculous soap operas."

"I do not watch those."

"Well, whatever nonsense you force your brain into enduring."

The shy rain outside was slowly starting to pick up, making for a light crackling noise against the roof and windows. John closed his eyes, wanting to just melt into that sound as he came back down from the high of the laughter, his aches and pains now rearing their ugly heads once again.

Sherlock stared at his shorter friend in contemplation, then, suddenly struck with an idea, he got up from the cushions and snatched up his violin, resting it under his chin as he faced out the tall window.

"Humour may not be my strong point John," he said in almost a whisper, "but I know one thing that is."

John smiled contentedly as he heard his friend begin to play a soft and soothing melody. The mellow notes hung in his ears and calmed the ache in his head that pounded like thunder. It was like a warm, cackling fire after a day out in the snow. He tucked himself further into the blankets, snuggling up against the soft cotton of the pillow, and finally drifted off into a deep, blissful sleep.

Sherlock continued to play as John slept, now knowing exactly what to do the next time his flatmate needed to relax.

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"Why was six afraid of seven?" "It wasn't. Numbers are not sentient and thus incapable of feeling fear."

Oh me and my lame jokes I found in some dusty corner of the internet x3 That one sounded very Sherlock but I decided not to include it :p As always thank you and if you've got any suggestions for further stories just drop me a line :)


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